


Falling Ain't Like Flying

by StarlingGirl



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Clint jumps off buildings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 15:54:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlingGirl/pseuds/StarlingGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has no idea how long he has left to live. Seconds, probably. The part of his brain that’s still struggling to catch up - the part that oozes calm like honey, slow and heavy and deceptively sweet - notes that his life isn’t flashing before his eyes.</p>
<p>He’s sort of glad. Living it once was bad enough.</p>
<p>In which Clint Barton falls off a building, and very much expects to die. Tony, of course, has other plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling Ain't Like Flying

**Author's Note:**

> Quick drabble from tumblr that I expanded a little.
> 
> And yes, I shamelessly 'borrowed' a line from Hot Fuzz. Apologies. (But really, I regret nothing.)

It’s not like flying.

There’s no giddy weightlessness, no breathless moment of defying gravity; there’s only the choking, clawing knowledge that he’s falling, that his bow is in two pieces and beating him in the race towards the unforgiving concrete below, that there’s no convenient way out this time. It ought to be a familiar feeling, but usually the panic only presses at him for the briefest of moments before he’s got his bowstring pulled back, arrow with a sturdy hook on its head and seemingly endless cord coiled at its tail, underneath the fletchings; his failsafe ‘get out of jail free’ card. Only this time it’s not going to be like that – it’s go to jail, go directly to jail, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars. Game over.

Hands fly out, claw at the air to find purchase on something, on  _anything_ that might slow him down, because broken limbs aren’t fun, but they’re sure as hell better than a broken neck or broken skull.

But there’s nothing, and his fingers close over only empty air, the wind rushing between them with strong tugs, a mocking parody of something tangible that he could grip onto, that could slow his fall enough that it won’t kill him.

He has no idea how long he has left to live. Seconds, probably. The part of his brain that’s still struggling to catch up - the part that oozes calm like honey, slow and heavy and deceptively sweet - notes that his life isn’t flashing before his eyes.

He’s sort of glad. Living it once was bad enough. Somehow, remembering the good bits doesn’t seem worth the trouble of having to sit through the many, _many_ less than pleasant bits.

He can’t hear anything aside from the thundering of his own heart and the deafening wind in his ears and maybe, as though from very far away, the rumble and crash of guns: the fight he’s just accidently removed himself from. A fight that they’re going to have to win without him, because it feels like he’s been falling forever and any minute, any second now -

The impact jolts  _everything,_ sends sharp pain right down to his very bones, so that he’s not even capable of conscious thought anymore. The agony is explicit, unspeakable; it’s like the time that some bastard knocked a gun from his hand with an iron crowbar and his hand had been numb and keenly, sharply excruciating at the same time – only this time it’s _everywhere._ Everything burns and stings and aches and throbs at the same time and all that passes through his mind is  _why can I still taste the wind?_

It’s long, long moments before the pain pulls back even a little and he registers that it’s metal and not concrete that had signalled an end to his fall.

He tries to suck air into his lungs. Can’t.

Right now, he’s kind of wishing that Tony hadn’t caught him. Because whatever gold and titanium alloy it is that slammed into him at high speed was probably only slightly less painful than impacting the concrete. And at least with the concrete, the pain would have stopped pretty sharpish.

He’s only aware of Tony landing somewhere in the vaguest of ways, with the fading of the rush of wind. Too much concentration still on the unfettered agony curling around his limbs, his muscles, his bones to really care.

“Talk to me, Barton,” Tony’s voice is saying, somewhere. Does the guy not realise that Clint needs to remember how to breathe, first?

When he does manage his first, shuddering breath, it only adds a newer, burning pain to his collection. A few more tries, and it fades a little. The adrenaline skittering through his blood is sharpening his vision so that when he opens his eyes, Tony’s face over his is crystal clear, picked out in vivid, colourful detail. He’s torn off his helmet and his hair is somehow a mess whilst still managing to look artfully attractive. His lips are parted in concern, eyes dark, and his hands are reaching for Clint to -

“Jesus Christ,” Clint hisses, trying to pull away from the hardness of unforgiving metal against his tender flesh. The look of relief on Tony’s face as Clint speaks is almost comical.

“Fuck,” Clint groans. “Next time, don’t catch me.” Tony lets out a wild half-laugh, with just a touch of hysteria hiding behind it, and the relief in his eyes is tangible in the air between them, too, in the new line that his body settles into as some of the tension he’s been holding in his muscles drains away.

“Stay here, asshole,” he says. “I’ll call in medical.”

“Not like I’m going anywhere, you bastard.” It’s true; Clint’s not sure he could walk even if he wanted to. Everything is white, bright pain and every movement sends another flare of frantic , screaming messages across his nervous system.

Tony grasps his helmet, is quite clearly going to dive straight back into the fight, and Clint braves the blinding pain to push himself into a sitting position, fling a fumbling, unresponsive hand around the hard metal on Tony’s back and press their lips together.

It’s not a sexy kiss. Clint’s sort of whimpering and Tony almost overbalances in his crouched position from surprise, and it’s over within a few seconds. Still, it’s good enough for the both of them, and Tony’s smile as he supports Clint back into a lying position says so.

“Don’t go being a twat now,” Clint warns. Tony chuckles, presses another kiss to Clint’s forehead as he stands, casting the archer a final, fond look.

“Wouldn’t give you the satisfaction,” he assures Clint, and then his helmet is on and he’s gone, taking two leaping steps to the edge of whatever roof they’re on and dropping off before soaring back into sight, repulsors already flaring.

And Clint lets his eyes fall shut and breathes deeply in attempt to stem the universal pain inhabiting every inch of his body.

The smile hurts, but it’s worth it. And somewhere above the haze of pain, there’s a string of thought that’s high and sharp and crystal clear, and it’s saying  “why did you ever fear falling when you knew he was there to catch you?”

It’s a good question. Clint trusts Tony with everything.

(Not quite true, actually – wouldn’t trust him with his car keys or his phone, or someone else’s girlfriend, but would trust him with the big things, the things that matter.)

But really, the conclusion that he was about to die hadn’t been an irrational one. Tony’s not always going to be there, conveniently keeping an eye on him as he plummets towards certain death.

For now, though, he is. He was.

Clint likes to take life-or-death situations as they come. And all in all? This one was rather less than disastrous.


End file.
